had done that once before. Big mistake.
It quit beeping. He realized he no longer heard it because he was sinking. Dying in the ocean didn't seem so bad. One good deep breath and he would take in God's ocean.
In that second he realized that he desperately wanted to cleanse himself. It was a wish that lived at the core of his soul and it burned in him. He didn't know why. Probably one swallow of ocean water and ending it wouldn't accomplish his desire. Something about Haley came to mind. She was really not cut out for this.
He decided on a couple hard strokes. There was air and he was coughing, although it seemed like someone else was coughing. The liquid of the ocean felt heavy over him.
He took a couple more strokes, or tried, and knew it was over. The arms would not work. Although he could think of the motion, it just didn't happen. It was not a matter of will. The nerves weren't functioning.
So sorry, Haley.
The old pictures in his mind-the torture room, the blood on the walls-taunted him-
Anna's screaming worse than he could have imagined. He had to stop it. He had to stop it. The memories went and salt water washed across his face.
A strange thing happened. He touched bottom. Trying to stagger up and stand, he realized he was on a rock. Somehow he managed to flail his arms and take a step that was actually more like falling forward. On the uphill side of the rock, the clifflike slope began, and Sam found himself miraculously in water up to his shoulders. He flailed some more and tried a stepping movement and his legs seemed a little less spastic than his arms. Sudden hope brought determination and he flailed harder, spastic to be sure, yet moving toward higher ground.
Finally he found himself bent over in a strange sort of walking and paddling routine, now in waist-deep water. He fell repeatedly up the steep slope, thankful that the dog was far enough away not to notice.
His cell phone beeped quietly. Haley, he guessed. He fell on his face in knee-deep water and started crawling.
Then he heard the faint drone of an airplane and something inside him radiated brighter hope.
Haley.
He wanted to help her find Ben… solve the aging riddle… live out the rest of her life.
To do that, he needed to discern Ben's plan. At the moment it was like a shredded blueprint. The parts were disjointed and still not quite discernible.
'Let's avoid the Sanker Foundation,' Haley said.
'You're right.' Grant turned, exposing the underbelly of the airplane as he sought to move away.
She heard a strange thunk, and then a much louder smack, accompanied by a very loud whistle. In front of Haley a hole in the windshield appeared. Then another in the side window.
'Oh God,' Grant said. 'I-'
Many bullets followed. Haley lost count. The only one that really mattered was the one that blew Grant's jaw off just as he was saying something about a leg wound.
Worse than vertigo, the wash of blood disoriented her. Panic set in, but Haley thought enough to switch off the lights.
Grant's body hung against hers, but she suppressed the panic. She let the body hang because she didn't want it leaning on the yoke. She told herself that she was experienced enough at flying Ben's float plane that she could land this one too. She turned her attention to the copilot's yoke and pedals.
Although terribly noisy, the plane seemed to fly fine. She checked the gauges and found nothing amiss. She looked out the window and flipped on a custom-installed ice light.
'Oh no.' A fine spray leaked from the wing. One shot had ruptured a fuel tank. A sick feeling came over her and she realized the hopelessness of the situation. Grabbing her cell, she tried calling Sam. Nothing.
She had flown many planes and this wasn't that completely different-except when it came to landing on the water. The whole hull rode the ocean, not just pontoons. Grant had mentioned that waves up to eighteen inches were okay, according to published specifications. Pilots had actually landed in larger waves-she thought wind waves as high as two or three feet depending on how steep. However, even to land in eighteen-inch waves took skill she didn't have. Doing it at night was even more perilous, but Sam needed her. She would have to try to land close to shore, where the water was calmest.
She took a heading toward Point Caution. At 135 knots everything on the ground looked very close. The wind whistled horribly and it was cold, even with the heater pumping full blast.
She didn't want to imagine why Sam wasn't answering.
With her hands shaking in desperation she picked up the phone and tried again.
'Happy to see you.' His words were slurred and he sounded bad.
She tried to talk but couldn't.
'Haley? Haley?'
'Grant's dead,' she blurted, trying to hold it together.
'Tell me,' he said.
'I'm sorry,' she managed. 'They shot Grant.'
'Can you land?'
'I think so. I think so.'
'Do your best,' Sam said. 'Get him off the stick.'
'I did.'
'I'm well back from Point Caution, toward the UW lab. Had to double back. I'm just beyond the tip of the main point, out of the harbor, where the rocks are steep.'
'How will I see you?' she asked.
'I'll see you. Talk you down. Try to act like you're landing way out by Point Caution.'
She banked steeply, putting down the flaps. On this airplane they were either up or down. That made it simple.
If only she had asked Grant more questions. Small planes had a lot of things in common, but the differences in this case could be critical. Flying over what she supposed was the landing spot, she could see next to nothing but the outline of the island. Now she made out lights along the beach.
She flew out over San Juan Channel, made two left turns, and lined up on a bay southerly of Point Caution. She slowed the plane down and swooped down to one hundred feet above sea level. According to the fuel gauge she had half a tank. Since she had started with three-quarters, the plane was losing fuel fast.
After she passed by the bay, she gave it power and raised the flaps, simulating a missed approach. Then she turned around and flew way out over Orcas and Jones Islands, turned and lined up once again for a second missed approach.
The stream of fuel coming from the wing continued unabated. Hopefully, she was drawing Frick's band of hunters overland to the vicinity of Point Caution.
She stayed low and held her speed at 120 knots, getting lined up for a controlled descent. Once she reached one hundred feet on the altimeter, she should have set up a descent rate of two hundred feet per minute with an appropriate pitch angle. For the final thirty seconds her eyes would be entirely on her instruments. There would be no looking outside. For that reason she carefully had to gauge the distance to any obstacles, and she had to think way ahead of the plane if she expected to come down anywhere near her target point.
Without a night flight-designed waterway, it was not an exercise for the faint of heart.
At 600 feet over the northernmost end of Lopez Island, she had set up the descent. She eased off the power a bit, slowing from 120 knots, raised her nose, lowered the flaps, and watched the rate-of-descent indicator. Two hundred fifty feet per minute… too fast.. 150 feet per minute… about right… 200 feet per minute, okay… ease off the power and trim the nose… airspeed 80 knots… rate of descent. 180 feet per minute… altitude 400 feet… She could see Friday Harbor coming fast… 200 feet per minute rate of descent… bumpy… bumpy… hold it… altitude 200 feet… She looked out… no anchor lights… ahead… altitude 100 feet… eyes locked in the cockpit. It felt like a spook ride at the fair, only much more frightening. She could not see the water or get a sense of it. She played with the stick gently, raising the nose trying to feel the cushion of air that would be compressed between plane and water. Everything was happening in milliseconds, thoughts faster than words. A lot of it was instinct, but it was instinct that had not been intended for this plane and its subtleties.
'I'm coming up on the point right over the water,' she said into the cell phone wedged between jaw and shoulder. Her voice was tight. 'Any anchor lights? Any anchor lights?'
